Dying to Sin (30 page)

Fry frowned, thinking she was missing some arcane fact about the game of rugby.

‘Obvious?’

‘Because of the Black and Tans.’

After a few seconds, Lenaghan rightly interpreted her silence.

‘You do know about the Black and Tans? The massacre in 1920?’

‘Sorry.’

Lenaghan stared at her in amazement. In fact, he stared for so long that Fry started to worry about his car drifting dangerously across the carriageway.

‘Thirteen spectators and one player were killed during the match between Dublin and Tipperary. Shot by the Black and Tans. It was the original Bloody Sunday massacre. Surely they teach you about that at school in England, Sergeant?’

‘No. These Black and Tans – were they English, then?’

Lenaghan shook his head in despair. ‘Eight hundred years of suppression, and you just forget.’

They’d booked her a room in a place called the Flyover B&B, a place with pine dressers and cast-iron fireplaces. Its name exactly described its location, right under Junction 1 of the motorway, where it met the Upper Drumcondra Road.

Fry made arrangements to meet up with Lenaghan in the morning, and she unpacked in her room. Then she switched on the TV, more for some background noise than because she wanted to watch anything.

Finally, she got out her phone. It had switched automatically to a local service provider in Ireland, but there were no messages that she’d missed. She put it on the table by the bed. But for the rest of the evening, her phone did not ring.

Cooper was sitting in his flat in Welbeck Street. He was watching the news on the telly, with his cat Randy purring on his knee and his mobile phone pressed to his ear.

‘So what do you want to do tonight?’ he asked.

‘I want to go shopping,’ said Liz. ‘I’ve still got some last-minute stuff to buy.’

‘Really? I thought you were more organized than that. I imagined you were the sort of person who had everything put away months ago. Drawers full of carefully wrapped and labelled presents for everybody you could think of.’

‘Presents, yes. But there are a few other things I need to take home with me for Christmas Day.’

‘And you want to do it tonight?’

‘Yes, Ben.’

Cooper exchanged glances with his cat, Randy. He’d never understood the appeal of shopping, but shopping on a Monday night seemed downright perverse.

‘OK, then. Where do you want to go?’

‘Meadowhall. We can be there in half an hour or so, and it’s open until nine o’clock tonight.’

‘Meadowhall? A week before Christmas? You’re kidding. Think of the crowds – it’ll be bedlam.’

‘It’s all right if you don’t want to come, Ben.’

Cooper sighed. ‘No. I’m sure it’ll be an experience.’

David Palfreyman opened the cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky. Glenfiddich, and it was still half full. He smiled for the first time that day.

‘There is a God, after all.’

It had been quite a day, and he deserved a drink. The police asking him more questions, a visit from Mel. It had been quite a week, actually, with the news from Pity Wood Farm that had gone round the village like wildfire, and the murder of Tom Farnham. But he’d resisted the bottle until now, hadn’t even peeped in the cupboard. But a large whisky was called for. A
very
large whisky, why not?

He poured a good-sized tumbler and held it up to the light, admiring the colour of the Glenfiddich. Peaty brown, with a hint of gold. Gorgeous. He could look at it for hours.

Palfreyman had done quite a lot of drinking when he was in the force. It was what had helped him relax when he came home at night, or in the early hours of the morning, whenever his shift ended. Sometimes he’d sat drinking on his own, when everyone else in the world was asleep, or just stumbling out of bed to get their breakfast, listening for the milkman whistling outside, turning on the radio to get the morning’s news. He’d drunk while the sun came up and the birds started singing. He’d drunk to ease the stress and dull the memories.

He’d only been eighteen months into the job when he was sent to a serious multiple fatal RTC. He’d been first on scene for that one. Over the years, he’d learned to handle the dead, but it had always been the living he’d had problems dealing with. He still had problems with them, even now. At that RTC, the poor woman whose husband had just died was so distressed that when he left her, he’d been close to bursting into tears himself. A big, strapping copper, left an emotional wreck. What a joke.

Later, he’d developed a sick sense of humour, pretty much like everyone else in those days. He’d viewed a fatal as a bonus. If the victim was dead, it meant one less statement to take. You had to be hard, didn’t you? You had to be thick skinned. You’d go mad if you weren’t.

He felt sorry for those in the job now. That detective sergeant – what was her name? Fry, of course. His memory wasn’t letting him down, not quite yet. And the other – her DC. Cooper, of course. No chance of forgetting that one.

These modern police officers had it worse than he did, no doubt about it. They couldn’t relieve the tension the same way he always had. No sick jokes – it wouldn’t be sensitive. Or, God help them, politically correct. And drinking was probably frowned on these days, too. Poor bastards.

Palfreyman took a sip of whisky, and found the glass was nearly empty. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. He mustn’t have been paying attention. He eased himself out of his chair and went back to the cupboard to top it up. There was plenty left in the bottle yet.

Some memories were very clear, even now. The first sudden death he went to. It had come over the radio just after he’d finished his supper. Chicken Korma, he could remember the taste of it. His stomach had knotted at the thought when they got the call. Most reports were false alarms, they’d told him. But he knew this one was going to be genuine. He knew it from the taste in his mouth. Chicken spiced with fear.

It had been a late winter’s evening, much like this one tonight. December, yes. A couple of weeks before Christmas. When they got to the house, there were no lights on and it was really cold. They’d shouted through the letter box, but got no reply. His partner had used a rammit on the door, and they’d gone in.

The occupant of the house was in the sitting room. He’d been a regular newspaper reader. They could judge how long he’d been there by the date on the newspaper he was holding. It had been about three weeks. Palfreyman remembered hearing the radio on in the background, some music playing, and the man lying on the sofa where he’d died holding his chest.

With a gesture of defiance, he finished the last of the whisky. It had been a few minutes before training kicked in on that occasion, but there was always duty to be done. Things to be sorted out.

Yes, even the dead demanded justice.

30

Tuesday

Garda Lenaghan took Fry first to Coolock garda station in Oscar Traynor Road and introduced her to his inspector. It was only when the garda took off his jacket in the office that she noticed he was armed.

‘Is that usual?’ she asked him.

‘The weapon? It’s my moral authority.’

Outside the garda station, there was a smell hanging in the air that made Fry feel a familiar craving. When they turned the corner in Lenaghan’s car, she noticed a huge Cadbury’s factory across the road. So that was where the smell came from. How did people stand it? If she worked in Coolock, she’d be a wreck within a few weeks.

Unlike most Irish people, in Fry’s experience, Lenaghan seemed comfortable with silence.

‘You have a couple of unidentified bodies, I gather?’ he said, after a while.

‘Just one now. We managed to get an ID on the first. A Slovakian migrant worker.’

‘Ah.’

Lenaghan nodded thoughtfully for a few minutes. ‘I don’t suppose we can make a match?’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I wondered if we could match up your body with our missing persons file. We have a few to choose from. There’s a Kosovan who’s been missing since January 2004. Would she suit you? Here she is, look – thirty-three years old, five feet nine inches tall, slight build, long dark hair, brown eyes. Name of Lilijana. Last seen wearing a dark jacket, black jumper, navy trousers and brown suede boots.’

‘Too old, and too tall,’ said Fry.

‘OK. Well, we’ve got a twenty-eight-year-old from County Mayo, missing since December 2000. Only five feet, this one. Small, slim build, short brown hair with red highlights. Black trousers, maroon polo-neck jumper, beige sleeveless jacket. None of them were exactly fashion icons, you understand.’

‘Do you have a lot of missing persons?’ said Fry.

‘Oh, yes. Going back to about 1991. We don’t bother much beyond that. But it would be nice to tie one up. Are you sure you wouldn’t like Lilijana?’

‘Sorry, I don’t think I can help you. But I’ll let you know.’

Lenaghan sighed. ‘Oh, well. They were probably killed locally, anyway. It’s the murder capital of the country here, Sergeant. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Dublin is awash with hand guns these days. You can buy one for two hundred euros, if you know which bar to go in.’

They passed something called the Starlight Club Memorial, which was setting off another echo in Fry. She was sure it was something she ought to recognize, but she daren’t ask about it, for fear of showing her ignorance again.

‘Look at this factory here,’ said Lenaghan, pointing at a huge building by the road. ‘It’s the old Tayto Crisps plant. When I was growing up, I always used to wind the window down as we passed it. The smell of the crisps cooking would waft beautifully into the car.’

Fry laughed as Lenaghan pretended to inhale a smell, like a Bisto Kid. He joined in her laughter cheerily.

‘Ah, but there’s no waft to be had today, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘They closed the Tayto factory two years ago. Outsourcing production, they call it.’

Martin Rourke’s house was in a street behind Bunratty Road, near the Northside Shopping Centre. The gardai already had Rourke in custody at Oscar Traynor Road, so Fry and Lenaghan were free to search his house.

Fry moved through the rooms, finding nothing of interest until she came to the bedrooms. The first one was a small room, still decorated with nursery wallpaper. Mr Happy and Little Miss Giggles.

‘Are young children still into the Mr Men these days?’ asked Fry.

‘Pre-school age, I think, yes.’

‘So Rourke has a pre-school-age child?’

‘Ah, I don’t think she’s with him any more,’ said Lenaghan. ‘The mother took the child away, I gather.’

A single bed stood against one wall, neatly made up, with folded pyjamas on the pillow. The only other furniture consisted of a chest of drawers painted pink, a TV set, and a white melamine wardrobe. Lenaghan opened the curtains and peered through the sash window on to the yard below.

To Fry, the bedroom felt cold and empty. It was strange how quickly a room began to feel that way, once its occupant was no longer there. She’d been in bedrooms where a child had been missing for only a few hours, but the feeling was unmistakable. As if the room itself knew that its occupant was never coming back.

Lenaghan pulled out the bed to make certain there was nothing underneath it, then opened the wardrobe. A few items of clothing swung from plastic hangers. On the floor were shoes and a pile of children’s books.

Fry had gone to the chest of drawers and was searching through more clothes, T-shirts neatly folded, pairs of socks rolled into balls.

‘Anything?’ asked Lenaghan.

‘Nothing obvious.’

But Fry had a nagging buzz at the back of her brain, an irritation telling her that something was missing, but she couldn’t think what it was.

Cautiously, Lenaghan shifted the wardrobe away from the wall. ‘Sergeant, come and look at this. Your visit to Dublin could be worthwhile.’

Detective Superintendent Hazel Branagh sat at the head of the room with DCI Kessen and surveyed the assembled CID team, waiting for the chattering to settle down.

‘Do I have your attention, DC Murfin?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Murfin, sitting up straight at the sound of her voice. Cooper had never seen him react quite like that before. It was almost as if someone had shoved a steel spike up his backside.

The fact that she knew Murfin’s name and picked him out from a room full of officers was impressive in itself. So far, she hadn’t been introduced to anyone in CID below inspector rank, yet she seemed to know who everyone was.

‘Good morning. You might already be aware who I am, but for those of you who were asleep, I’m Detective Superintendent Branagh.’

There was a ragged chorus of ‘Good morning, ma’am’, mouthed rather than spoken too loudly, for fear of attracting attention. Cooper was reminded of the chorus at the pantomime, amateur singers coming together for the first time to practise sounding like one.

‘I’m fully aware that you have a major enquiry on your hands, and I want to assure you I’m not going to get in the way. DCI Kessen will remain SIO while I settle in and get my feet under the table. However, I do want to get to know everyone personally as soon as I can, so don’t be surprised if you find me hanging around in the CID room asking what you’re doing.’

Cooper shivered at the hint of a threat in the last sentence. He sneaked a glance at Murfin, who was still looking stricken at having been singled out.

‘The shooting is taking precedence at the moment, and it’s attracting quite a lot of media attention – as is the discovery of the abandoned crystal meth lab. Fortunately, I’ve managed to negotiate extra resources, and the drugs squad are working with us. Rest assured, we’re pulling out all the stops.’ Branagh turned to the DCI sitting alongside her. ‘But the human remains at the farm, Stewart – is this a cold case?’

‘It looks like it,’ said Kessen. ‘Twelve months in one instance, anyway. Four years in the other.’

‘There isn’t still an open enquiry on either of the victims?’

‘Not that we’re aware of. But since we haven’t actually managed to establish an identity on the second …’

‘Witnesses?’

Kessen gritted his teeth. ‘None. As far as we know, the only eyewitness was Thomas Farnham.’

‘I understand the former owner of the farm is still alive?’

‘Yes, Mr Sutton. But he’s very elderly, and borderline senile. So far, we haven’t been able to obtain much useful information from him.’

‘Push him harder,’ said Branagh.

‘We can do that, but …’

‘Good. And there’s a suspect still in custody, I believe.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kessen. ‘Jack Elder.’

‘And what’s the position on Mr Elder?’

‘The CPS say we have enough evidence to charge him with some minor offences, but there’s nothing to substantiate anything more serious.’

‘Let’s go for a charge, then, and release him.’ Branagh looked around the room. ‘And then perhaps DC Murfin can suggest a few new lines of enquiry. From what I’ve heard, he seems like an officer with some unusual ideas.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Murfin.

‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment.’

The CID room was quiet without Diane Fry. Particularly hushed after the first meeting with Superintendent Branagh. But Murfin wasn’t going to be kept quiet for long.

‘Actually, I
have
got a theory, Ben,’ he said suddenly.

‘Oh? I hope you’re not going to try showing off for the new Super, Gavin. I’d be careful, mate.’

‘It’s about this Raymond Sutton bloke,’ said Murfin, waving aside Cooper’s advice. ‘He sounds like a bit of a Holy Joe, right?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Do you think he could have killed the woman in some drug-crazed religious ritual that went wrong?’

‘Raymond Sutton is a Methodist,’ said Cooper. ‘From what I’ve heard, Methodists don’t drink or swear, or take drugs.’

‘Or fart, I suppose,’ said Murfin.

‘Sceptical, Gavin?’

‘In my experience, every bugger in the world has the same evil thoughts and dirty habits. Some just
pretend
they don’t.’

Cooper laughed. Methodism made him think of the Tolpuddle Martyrs and the temperance movement. Apart from that, they were a bit of an alien sect, with mysterious ways of behaving.

Thinking of mysterious behaviour, he had to admit it was a bit strange for DCI Kessen to confine Fry to mispers, then suddenly decide to send her to Ireland. But he was sure it didn’t mean anything sinister. Fry was being too thin-skinned. He supposed it came with the keenness of her ambition. Not the slightest little thing should get in her way. Not a hint of being passed over or left out when something was happening.

Murfin answered the phone, disappeared for a few minutes, then came back into the room.

‘You haven’t been presenting your new theory, have you, Gavin?’ said Cooper.

‘I decided it needed a bit more work. No, there’s a girl in reception. She says she’s David Palfreyman’s granddaughter.’

‘Really? What is she like?’

‘Well, for a start, she seems to be wearing more tattoos than clothes. That blue ink must have some sort of insulating quality. Do you reckon?’

‘How old is she?’

‘Late teens. She describes herself as a student, but she doesn’t seem to be studying very much. As far as I can tell, she’s re-taking her gap year. But she’s banging on about her brother being killed in a car crash years ago, and I can’t make any sense of it.’

‘I’ll talk to her, if you like.’

‘Thanks, Ben. You’re a pal.’

Cooper got up and put his jacket on before he met a member of the public.

‘Hey, by the way, Ben,’ said Murfin. ‘Is Diane Fry leaving?’

‘What?’

‘Haven’t you heard anything?’

‘No. Have you, Gavin?’

‘It was just something that the DI said.’

‘No, she’s only gone to Ireland. She’s been sent to interview Martin Rourke.’

‘Oh.’ Murfin tapped his teeth with a pen, in a way that made Cooper pause before he went down to reception.

‘You’re always getting things slightly wrong, Gavin. Did you know that?’

Murfin looked at his computer suddenly, and his face went pale. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What’s the matter now?’

‘I’ve got an email, Ben. From Detective Superintendent Branagh. She says I’m first in for a personal interview with her tomorrow morning.’

Cooper didn’t notice the girl’s tattoos so much. Instead, he noticed her eyes. They were big, brown eyes, like a veal calf’s. In shadow, she looked like a weary Madonna – pale and worried, dark hair hanging around her face. But when she turned to greet him, the light of the grey December afternoon did nothing for her appearance. Before the tattoos, she’d been an ordinary teenage girl with nice hair, but really bad acne.

‘You’re the granddaughter of Mr David Palfreyman at Hollowbrook Cottage, Rakedale?’

‘Yes, my name is Mel Palfreyman. It’s short for Melanie, but I never really liked that name.’

Cooper could have guessed it. It was much too feminine and girly for a teenager who wanted to rebel.

‘Are you close to your grandfather?’

‘Yes, closer than I am to my mum and dad. I visit him all the time in Rakedale. In fact, he’s like a real dad to me. Tells me off, disapproves of my boyfriend. You know the sort of thing. But, yes, we get on fine. I was always Granddad’s favourite, whereas Ian was my parents’.’

‘Ian?’

‘My brother?’

‘You told my colleague that your brother died.’

‘In a car accident. When he was fourteen. Granddad refers to it as the RTA.’

Cooper nodded. Even the use of acronyms dated Palfreyman. No one referred to a Road Traffic Accident any more. It had to be called an RTC – a Road Traffic Collision. If it was an ‘accident’, then no one could be charged with responsibility for it. And in twenty-first-century Britain, there always had to be someone to blame.

‘How did it happen, Mel?’

‘We were both in the car, in fact,’ she said. ‘We were with our grandparents on a day out. We were going to Sheffield to do some shopping. Granny and Granddad wanted to buy us some new clothes. Our birthdays were quite close together, as it happened.

‘Granddad was driving. He made a mistake pulling out on to the A6 near Bakewell. The road was very busy, a lot of heavy lorries. It was near Ashford in the Water. You know the place I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘We had to wait a long time at the junction to pull out. Cars were queuing behind us, drivers were getting irritable. Ian was impatient, too. I remember hearing him say, “Come on – go for it, Granddad.” But Ian was sitting in the back seat, with me. How could he have known whether it was safe to pull out? He couldn’t, could he? But Granddad pulled out anyway. If he’d been a bit quicker on the accelerator pedal, we might have been all right, even then. But there was a lorry – and it couldn’t avoid us.’

Mel touched the scar on her forehead. It was more noticeable now than it had been before. The memory was making it flare red, like a fresh wound.